Reveries
by That Kid with a Dumb Username
Summary: "But also, she dreamed of Peter.  Ever a mystery to her and yet ever the best dream of all." Peter pays Wendy a visit. Peter/Wendy. One-Shot.


**A simple Peter/Wendy one-shot because I love them so darn much. I tried to keep true to J. M. Barrie's writing style to the best of my ability (I've lent my copy of **_**Peter Pan**_** to a friend so I can't reference it to check myself). This takes place prior to Wendy growing up (obviously), around the time when Peter would come to get her annually for spring cleaning. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Wendy always was a dreamer, so naturally, she dreamed. She was quite good at it too. She was so perfectly imaginative that she was able—even as teenage years shadowed over her, waiting to sink their fangs into her pretty little mind—to dream in the most vibrant colors with carefree melodies that many children had forgotten they knew as they reached her age. She dreamed of adventures, spicy sweet on her tongue and crisp against her fingertips. She dreamed of passion and freedom, illuminating her soul 'til she glowed like a star. And sometimes, she dreamed of growing up: a dull grade shade that clashed quite horribly with her assortment of dreams, yet it was appealing to her in a different sort of way—like calculus when you actually comprehend the first question. But also, she dreamed of Peter. Ever a mystery to her and yet ever the best dream of all. Her lips would always curl into a smile in her subconscious when she dreamt of the boy who knew nothing and everything. And if you were to peer down at her, she would appear much like a child rather than a young adult when she did so.<p>

One autumn night, orange and yellow leaves decorating the London streets like flower petals, Wendy was settling into bed. Her own bed, that is-not associated with the nursery. She dimmed her lamp and rested her head against her pillow, anticipating her nightly dream. Naturally, being so tidy, she could have dusted one off and chosen it herself—but where was the fun in that? No, Wendy much preferred the most daring one to come rushing up to her instead, asking politely if it might entertain her for the night with her giving her consent. That night, it was a Peter dream. The windows themselves flung open in awe as he flew into the room, always so young and always so impudent. "Come away with me, Wendy." A simple order because he was king of everything (_at least in the confines of his own mind_) and because speaking eloquently would be too grown-up.

"Peter, you know I can't," she told him plainly, not wishing to flatter such brash commands since she was becoming a respectable lady, "I'm to grow up very soon."

He growled, barring his teeth like an animal at the word. She was wholly undaunted. "I hate grown-ups," he reminded her, even though she would never forget, "And if you become one, I'll hate you, too."

"There could be worse things," she told him practically. Although within the privacy of her heart, she had the smallest trace of a doubt, tugging at her throat lightly and whining about her inexplicable attraction to the boy. She couldn't define it, and she didn't quite like it, but something about Peter would always draw her interest. He fascinated her in a way that no other person did.

Peter stumbled in the air, plopping onto her bed as a way of masking his alarm. Wendy knew that not anybody could simply deny Peter—she wasn't even entirely sure _she_ could. "Nothing's worse than growing up," he mumbled, glaring at her stubbornly from beneath untamed curls.

"Peter, that's not logical," Wendy elaborated, "There are many worse things than simply becoming an adult."

"Like what?" he sneered. _A challenge._

Wendy bit her lower lip lightly, thinking hard. She knew there were worse things—it was only rational that there would be. But that doubt within her (_mischievous little imp_) seemed to have banished them from her being; she couldn't pluck out a single one and give it a name. "I can't tell you." _A lie._

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't understand. It's a matter for grown-ups."

Peter leapt from the bed, livid. He drew his dagger and pointed it to her neck. "Speak of them one more time, and I'll chop off your head and bring it to the Lost Boys as a trophy!" he snarled.

"You haven't got any Lost Boys," she said, "They've all grown up."

A wave of—what could've _possibly_ been emotion at its faintest—swept across Peter's face, and he crumpled to the floor, burying his head in his hands. "You stole them from me," he whimpered from behind his fingers.

"Oh hush," Wendy chided. But she still rose from the bed to console him.

Peter jerked away when she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Get away!" he cried out.

"No," she said firmly, "And do not tell a lady what to do."

"You're no lady!" the fire was flaring again in his eyes, "You're a _grown-up._"

"I am _not!_" Wendy put her hands on her hips, standing upright and towering over the boy, "I intend to become one, but I am not!"

"That's the same thing!" Peter stood too, his feet levitating off of the ground ever so slightly to equate for the few inches that had sewn themselves to Wendy as she slept.

Wendy _hmph_ed, tired of arguing with petty boys and went back to bed, lying in it and shutting her eyes. "What are you doing?" he demanded, furious at being ignored.

"Going to bed. Goodnight, Peter."

Peter flew closer, hovering over her prostrate form. "Come with me to Neverland," he said softly to her.

"I already said I wouldn't."

"But you will, won't you?"

"No. I must grow up."

"But I need a mother."

Wendy frowned, "I've already been your mother."

"Come be my mother again, Wendy. I so _desperately_ need a mother. Won't it be just as good if you were to grow old this Tuesday instead? You could be my mother 'til then."

Wendy sat upright. _An interesting proposal._ But she shook her head, "No, Peter. It'd be perfectly dreadful to grow up on a Tuesday, I'm afraid."

"Wednesday then."

Wendy examined the idea, coming to her conclusion. "I suppose a Wednesday would do tolerably."

"Then you will come with me, won't you?"

"I suppose I shall, temporarily. But you must promise me to take your baths and bring me fresh food to cook if I do."

"I promise, Mother."

Tinkerbell wasn't there, but Peter had traces of pixie dust on his kiss, which still hung about a necklace close to his heart. Wendy thought of Peter, and then she was flying about her room. Peter held her hand, guiding her to Neverland as they zipped and zigzagged their way through star and sky. Wendy thought to herself that it was lovely timing since it was just now spring cleaning time, and Peter was so terribly bad at spring cleaning. When Wendy's feet met Neverland soil and she inhaled the rich scent of childhood again, Peter crowed and circled about her and the house victoriously—as if she were a prize of sorts that he had managed to ensnare. Wendy shook her head, dusted the stardust from her dress and set to work. Peter followed her into the house, his head high with pride, as he declared that he had permanently abolished Wednesdays. And Wendy simply smiled. _Sometimes,_ her favorite dreams were realities in disguise.


End file.
